


Death in the AMA

by bibliolatry



Series: Adventures in Mouselock [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 221 Baker St has a lovely garden, Death of multiple rodents, Don't Examine This Too Closely, Don't Judge Me, Everyone's a mouse/rat, Gen, I Don't Even Know, Mouselock, Mrs. Hudson is the only human, Semi-Crack!fic, St. Bart's is the shed, What Was I Thinking?, case!fic, this is just ridiculous
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-13
Updated: 2014-01-30
Packaged: 2018-01-08 13:27:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1133187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bibliolatry/pseuds/bibliolatry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ronald Thompson, ambassador of American Mouse Association (AMA), has been found murdered under the rose bush in Mrs. Hudson's garden. It's up to Sherlock and John to find the culprit. Moriarty and Moran are up to no good again. Does it all tie in together, or is Moriarty using a bit of a lucky break to advance his own plans while Sherlock is distracted?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [221b_hound](https://archiveofourown.org/users/221b_hound/gifts).



> I don't know what I was thinking when I started this. It is absolute shite. You don't have to read this. I'd understand if you ran away screaming before you even begin chapter 1.
> 
> This work (first in my Mouselock collection) is a gift for 221b_hound for being an amazing Sherlock author. My absolute favorite. Go check out "Blood Brothers", "Unkissed" and "Guitar Man" (they are AMAZING!!!)

"He's an important member of the AMA, Sherlock. That is all I can tell you," Mycroft leans on his umbrella as he eyes his younger brother. 

Sherlock lay sprawled across the doll house sized sofa Mrs. Hudson, his human, had provided him when she'd first discovered her miniature tenants that resided in 221B Baker Street. Mycroft is still trying to figure out why the woman is providing for Sherlock and his doctor rather than trying to exterminate them, which is what any sane human would do when they found rodents in their home.

"Dull," Sherlock moans. His eyes flick to door, constantly open for easy entrance and exit, as Doctor John Watson enters. "Busy day?"

John heaves a sigh and sets down his mouse-sized doctors bag. "Ridiculously busy. Those damned alley cats are at it again. Three amputations, two side wounds, and one death. I'll be happy when the catchers come and deal with them. Didn't Mrs. H say she'd called?"

Sherlock hums his response and turns back to his brother. "I have no interest whatsoever in the disappearance of the head of the American Mouse Association. If there was concern for his safety, he should have stayed in America, brother. Either that, or you should have increased his security. Don't bother me with your screw-ups."

"Sherlock..." Mycroft began only to be interrupted by John.

"Wait, what?" Are you talking about Ronald Thompson? Sherlock, you have to find him," John stares down at Sherlock, his little mouse arms crossed over his oatmeal colored jumper (courtesy of Mrs. Hudson).

Sherlock rolls his eyes and looked up at John with a bored expression. "And why is that?" his eyes roam over John and he pulls himself upright. "Ah," he says as realization dawns on him. "You served with his younger brother in the Great War and feel a sense of duty, since you were unable to save his brothers life, to do your best by him."

John sighs and lets his arms drop to his side. "Yes, Sherlock. I was trying to save his brother when I was bitten. That's how I wound up here, with you, being as much of a help as my small mind can be."

"Which is quite helpful indeed, John. It may be that you are not yourself luminous, but that you are a conductor of light. Some people without possessing genius have a remarkable power of stimulating it," Sherlock replies just as Detective Inspector Lestrade of New Scotland Garden arrives on scene. "Ah, Lestrade. Have you got something more interesting than this rubbish?"

"I don't know what rubbish you're talking about, but I've got a body with no immediate signs of cause of death. Care to lend us your genius?"

Sherlock's eyes light up and he turns to John, a smile filled with childish glee spreading across his mousey face. "The game is afoot!" He turns and pulls on the Belstaff and blue scarf (courtesy of Mrs. Hudson) before heading towards the door. “Come, John.”

Of course, John follows. It’s what he does. 

~~~

“He probably just had a heart attack.”

“Anderson, don’t speak. You lower the IQ of the entire building. Consider yourself lucky I haven’t discovered which hole you’ve claimed as your own; I would have informed your wife of Sergeant Donovan assisting your in your house keeping duties while she’s off visiting her sister.”

Anderson’s face pales and Donovan sneers as Sherlock stalks across the flagstone path towards the rose bush. He ducks under the branches and immediately begins to sniff around the tawny colored mouse. John follows, casting a quick glare at Anderson and Donovan before ducking under the branches to get a closer look for himself.

“Sherlock,” John says, knowing he shouldn’t interrupt the consulting detective while he works, but feeling he should point this particular bit of information out.

“Yes, what is it, John?” Sherlock huffs, glancing up at his companion.

“This is,” John begins, turns his head away from the body before him. “This is Mr. Thompson.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edit 01/30/2014

“It appears I’ve found your missing ambassador, dear brother,” Sherlock calls out as he makes his way up the stairs. “He’s in the rose garden.”

“Ah, good, I’ll just go…” Mycroft is cut off by John calling up past Sherlock, “Dead.”

“Ah,” Mycroft sighs, taps his plastic, faux-umbrella against the wood of the floor and watches out the open door as Sherlock and John climb the final two steps, John pushing Sherlock’s thinner frame up before pulling himself up. “Pity. This could be a problem.”

“Yes, I don’t think President Brinson will be too pleased to discover that his second favorite representative was kidnapped and killed right under your twitchy little nose, Mycroft. You really should keep better track of your visitors, brother. We’re likely to have another Great War on our hands at this rate.”

“Sherlock, can we not bicker like primary schoolers?” John grumbles in an attempt to cut off the snarky back and forth between the brothers. 

“Yes, Sherlock, there are more important things to focus on than having the last word.”

Sherlock throws himself into the small leather and metal doll house chair. He crosses his arms over his chest, a sulk of epic proportions coming on as he’s denied one of the few pleasures he allows himself. He lives to bicker with and annoy his brother. “Fine, lets get on with this. Tell me more about Ronald Thompson. Don’t give me any of that ‘top secret’ or ‘need to know’ rubbish. I need details.”

“Very well,” Mycroft tilts his head subtly, indicating the doll house arm chairs sitting opposite Sherlock’s favorite perch. John takes a seat in his usual chair, red and black plaid with a throw Mrs. Hudson had cut out of an old blanket, while Mycroft takes Sherlock’s black leather and stainless steel. Sherlock throws himself across the couch, paws brought up under his chin in a steepled fashion, eyes wide and focused on the ceiling. “Ronald Thompson, public head of AMA, though serving under President Arnold Brinson. Aged eleven months. Gives commands, but rarely, if ever, takes part in the tasks assigned…”

“Like you, then,” Sherlock cuts in, “afraid of legwork.”

John can’t hide the chuckle that escapes at that and ignores the icy glare Mycroft sends his way. Mycroft opens his mouth as if to continue speaking, but is interrupted by Lestrade puffing up the last step and rushing into the room.

“Mr. Holmes,” he nods in acknowledgement of the elder Holmes brother before turning to John. “John, I need medical. That damned cat’s back and we’ve already lost two with one injured.”

John rushes out after Lestrade, leaving the two Holmes brothers staring after them. Sherlock is quick to his feet, throwing on his Belstaff and scarf before rushing out the door, ignoring Mycroft’s calls to wait and listen.

**~~~**

_Cats_ , Sherlock thinks as his eyes travel down the alley and back, _are a terribly annoying hindrance to The Work_. There are three that he's counted so far, though Lestrade seems to think there's just the one. What Sherlock can't figure out is who's controlling them. This isn't a typical cat-styled attack. No, this is something of much better planning. There's a strategy here, a specific push and pull that's being played out in a particular pattern for the enjoyment of someone that's watching from some distance; someone that controls the movements, but doesn't get involved enough to be easily associated with the incidents.

Sherlock is just matching up the situation with that one particular name that's been teetering in the back of his mind when there's an unmistakably recognizable squeak of pain. He turns swiftly and see's John; his lower left leg disappearing between the teeth of a British Shorthair of approximately nine years of age. Sherlock is moving before he even realizes he's done so. He's known John for five weeks now. John is vital to The Work. He can't lose John. Before Sherlock can get to John, he's pulled up short by a black furred rat. This rat is familiar, though Sherlock is having trouble focusing on where he knows him from while trying desperately to get to John.

"Jim Moriarty. Hi!" the rat grins and it's an evil grin; a malicious grin that makes Sherlock want to shiver in disgust, though he hides it well. "I’ve shown you what I can do. I cut loose all those people, all those little problems, even thirty million quid just to get you to come out and play."

Sherlock stares at Moriarty, eyes skipping over to where John lay motionless in the shorthairs mouth before returning to the rat before him. "People have died."

"That's what people **do** ," Moriarty yells, the last word coming out stronger and louder, echoing down the alley.

"I _will_ stop you," Sherlock vows.

"No you won't," Moriarty wiggles his nose a bit, his rat-lips pulling up in a devious smirk. "D’you know what happens if you don’t leave me alone, Sherlock, to _you_?"

"Let me guess," Sherlock rolls his eyes, "I get killed?"

"Kill you?" Moriarty grimaces. "No! I mean, yes, I will kill you _some day_ , but I don't want to rush it. I'm saving _that_ for something **special**. No-no-no-no-no. If you don't stop prying; if you don't get your mousey little nose out of my business, I will _burn_ you. I'll burn the _heart_ out of you."

"I've been reliably informed that I do not have one," Sherlock replies with a bored tone.

"But we both know that's not quite true," Sherlock blinks and Moriarty looks down and away for a moment before looking back at Sherlock and continuing. "Well, I'd better be off. So nice to a have had a proper chat. Ciao, Sherlock Holmes." Moriarty disappears behind a skip and Sherlock rushes towards John who has been dropped non-to-gently by the shorthair. 

"John!" Sherlock can't hide the concern in his voice. "Are you alright."

"Yeah-yeah. I'm fine. Are you?" John asks and Sherlock stares at him for a moment before giving a slight nod.


	3. Chapter 3

It's just over three hours before Sherlock and John manage to make it back to 221B. Mrs. Hudson has left out some olives for their dinner. Sherlock throws himself onto the couch with his usual dramatic flair prompting John to let out a huff of amusement before grabbing both olives and returning to the sitting room.

“You need to eat, Sherlock,” Sherlock harrumphs and turns towards the back of the couch, tucking his legs up to his chest. “Sherlock, I will force this down your throat if you do not sit up and eat right now.”

Sherlock turns back and glares at him as he sits up and holds out a paw for the olive. He takes a defiant bite and chews slowly before swallowing exaggeratedly. “Happy?”

“Ecstatic,” John says as he sits in his chair and starts on his own olive. “Now, where are we on the Ronald Thompson thing?”

“Oh, that,” Sherlock shrugs. “It was nothing important. I've already gotten word to Mycroft. Leaving a lover can be deadly, it seems.”

“Really?” John stares at him. “He was killed because he left his lover?”

Sherlock shrugs again, stares down at the olive (only two bites taken out of it) before placing it on the small coffee table. “People do stupid things for stupid reasons. Lestrades already picked him up, so he’s no longer our worry.”

“Wait, wait… Him?”

“Yes, him. Mr. Thompson had a male lover. His wife wasn't too happy to hear about that, I’m sure.”

“Hmm,” John turns back to his olive, taking a large bite before looking up and across at Sherlock again. He chews and swallows before speaking. “So, how long till you’re bored again?”

Sherlock laughs, loud and unchecked. John likes his best friend best this way, when he lets the real Sherlock Holmes show through.

**~~~**

"Sherlock?"

"Yes?" Sherlock looks up from the beetle carcass he's studying. His eyes drift around the sitting room until they come across John who is staring at his violin.

"You said you play, yet I haven't heard a single piece. Sure you've scratched at it and caused all sorts of ruckus, but can't you play any real music?" John asks.

"Of course I can play real music, John. I just seldom choose to do so. The entire purpose behind the violin is to help me think..."

"And to annoy Mycroft."

"Sherlock nods his head in acknowledgement, "and the majority of the time, the 'scratching', as you so eloquently put it, helps to align the jumbled mess so that I can sort it into the appropriate location within my mind palace."

"I see."

Sherlock turns completely and gives John his full attention. "Do you?"

John looks between Sherlock and the violin a couple of times before crossing his arms over his chest and shaking his head. "Nope, not at all. Play for me?" he tilts his head a bit, eyeing Sherlock warily.

Sherlock nods his head once. "Very well."

It's strong and beautiful and everywhere at once. John thinks it's Sherlock. Sherlock thinks it reminds him of John; of how John is so small and unassuming until you threatened someone he cared about or something he was passionate about (and yes that includes his medical background). Anger John and you may as well have brought upon yourself the wrath of several colonies of fleas. 

While the differences between the boys of Baker Street are vast and many, one thing will always remain the same. Sherlock Holmes and John Watson will always be there for one another. They will always have each others back. Even Moriarty will have trouble breaking the bond they've made.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is shorter than I'd intended for it to be. Do not fear, there will be more Adventures in Mouselock, but this particular story _is_ over (for now). I do hope you've enjoyed it. 
> 
> ~Bib


End file.
